


black shoe, black shoe

by quarterdeck



Series: puffinverse [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dialogue Heavy, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Introspection, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Pet Names, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Road Trips, Slow Burn, lesbian sandy, yall know my specialty is knowing slow burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:41:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25141807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quarterdeck/pseuds/quarterdeck
Summary: After video footage of him confessing his lifelong love for his best friend goes viral, Richie Tozier is a man on the run. Eddie Kaspbrak hasn't ever let him go without a fight, and he doesn't plan to start now.or: a week in the life of richie and sandy's sad gay solidarity road trip
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: puffinverse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1832359
Comments: 85
Kudos: 473





	black shoe, black shoe

**Author's Note:**

> this is sillyyyyy

> **TMZ ✔️@TMZ** 2h ago
> 
> After the L.A. comedian’s viral breakdown at disastrous Chicago show, only one question remains in all of our minds: just where in the world is Richie Tozier?

Richie sighs.

Turning his phone back on after a week of having deliberately kept it dead and stuffed deep down at the bottom of his travel bag had - in his defence - sounded like a great idea five minutes ago. He’s been at Bangor Hospital for a week now, sitting ceaseless vigil at Eddie’s bedside, and he’s just so fucking _bored_.

Whatever anybody says, there’s only so much you can do to entertain yourself in a 280 square foot room, even if Eddie’s bougie ass apparently had good enough insurance to secure him a private one. 

He’d tried talking to him, of course, as he lay there in the bed, heeding the words of a friendly nurse who told him that it’s entirely possible Eddie might be able to hear him. But monologuing to an Eddie Kaspbrak unable to snap back had quickly become unbearable, like the entire fucking universe had turned completely on its head. The first ‘your mom’ joke that had gone unanswered had Richie choking up, words dying in his throat as quickly as they had come, and since then it’s just been him, Eddie’s comatose body, four concrete walls, and the deafening, unbearable silence. 

And the worst part of all of it is that it’s his own fault.

Stuck in the Deadlights down there in the sewers, Richie had already lived out that horrifying and unconscionable timeline where Pennywise’s spider claw had come down, piercing through Eddie’s chest and leaving him cold and empty-eyed against the cave wall. Where he had to go back to the Kissing Bridge alone; where his friends jumped happily into the quarry and joked about Eddie’s little idiosyncrasies before his body even had a chance to grow cold.

 _Not that they’d even know_ , a small mean part of Richie thinks, _considering they had told me to leave his body down there in every timeline._

Because he’d had to live it over, and over, and over, hadn’t he, and every single time he tried _so hard_ to stop it, and every single time his friends had dragged him away to the sound of his own grief-stricken screams. But the one time that it had really counted - when he had come out of the Deadlights for real, terror more stark, colours more bright, sounds less muted, (because _Eddie had saved_ him, Eddie had pulled him down, Eddie had -?) - he’d choked.

Eddie’s eyes had looked down at his, bigger and more limpid than they had been in any of the others. Richie was stuck there, trading the pull of the Deadlights for the pull of Eddie’s doe eyes and hadn’t shoved him out of the way fast enough - Pennywise’s claw had torn clean through his side and thrown him back against the cavern wall just the same as the very first time, while Richie stumbled over and tried desperately to stop the flow of blood with his jacket.

So, yes. Rebooting his phone so that he could just play a fucking game of Candy Crush had sounded like a swell idea. He’s bored. He’s stressed. He’s wound tighter than a two-dollar watch. And - for this reason most of all - he is currently avoiding his friends and in need of an activity to distract from the sharp ache of missing them. 

It’s not only TMZ that has him quickly regretting this choice. 

**Google Alerts** \- richie tozier (102)

 **Twitter |** **_1m Ago_ ** **:** @MashedPotato, @2Hgfnc, and 2397 more just followed @Trashmouth

 **Instagram |** **_1m Ago:_ ** @ShPuOff and 3521 more just followed @RichieTozier

 **Stan the Man |** **_2m Ago_ **: You know where to find me, Rich.

**Steve Covall (34) Missed Calls**

**Ringwald (12) Missed Calls**

**Stan the Man (3) Missed Calls**

**Ringwald |** **_12 Hours Ago_ ** **:** Richie honey, we didn’t mean t…

 **Big Bill |** **_12 Hours Ago_ ** **:** I’m sorry richie, i wasn’t th... 

**Ben Handsome |** **_13 Hours Ago_ **: When you’re ready to talk, j…

 **Mikey |** **_14 Hours Ago_ ** **:** Bill didn’t mean to upset you, R…

 **Eds💕|** **_8 Days Ago:_ ** Here’s my number, dickhead. 

“Look at that, Eds,” Richie murmurs bitterly, hand mindlessly stroking along the tendon in his wrist. “Looks like this old moron is important enough to miss after all.”

 _B-list, Richie_ , he hears Eddie’s voice answer in his head, _are you sure anyone’s even heard of you?_

But it only takes a glance and 0.2 seconds of thought before Richie is hitting Ⓧ to clear everything. Avoid, repress, and ignore. The Richie Tozier way.

It’s only a couple of quick taps to turn off all social media notifications in his system settings, and then Richie is taking deep, measured breaths in and out to decide where exactly he’s supposed to go from here. Metaphorically, of course, since leaving Eddie’s side isn’t an option.

The only person he responds to is Stan.

**Stan the Man**

[...]

You know where to find me, Rich.

**Richie**

yeah. always. 

not ready to talk though.

The bomb had been detonated last night in the Bangor Hospital ICU waiting room.

The nurses had kicked Richie out of the room for the first time in six days in order to conduct some tests on Eddie, grim looks marring their faces, and their refusal to give him any information or answer any questions had Richie’s teeth grinding and his heart pulsing out a stutter worthy of Bill Denbrough.

It had been worse than last year when his father had had his heart attack, and neither Richie nor Maggie had been allowed in to see him. At least Went had been conscious. At least Richie knew it wasn’t his own incompetence that had put his father there. 

“Are you the spouse?” they had asked when he caused a fuss over it, all polite smiles, but all Richie can see in the place of their faces is Pennywise’s sharp-toothed grin, mouth red like a knife wound. _I know your secret. Your dirty little secret. Are you the spouse, Richie? Huh? Are you the wife?_ He’d turned heel and walked away before he could vomit onto their pristine blue scrubs, their pristine white shoes, their pristine fucking linoleum floors.

There had been a few late-night visitors dotted along the rows of chairs in the waiting room of the ICU, and his friends had all been there, of course, loyally setting up camp during visitor’s hours from 8am to 10pm daily, but Richie wasn’t in the headspace to be making polite conversation with anyone, sneakers instead wearing a hole in the floor and rational mind so far away from him he couldn’t have called it back to earth if he tried.

After the ninth lap of the waiting room, he could barely stand his own thoughts, let alone the tapping sound of his footsteps, and so he did what he did best: disconnected the mouth-to-brain filter and talked a whole lot of bullshit.

“Why the fuck are these chairs red, what kind of hospital has _red_ waiting room chairs, who wants those? Don’t people here ever get tired of looking at fucking _red, red, red,_ like christ, don’t you see enough red stitching up all the poor idiots who come stumbling in -”

“Richie.” Bill had said quietly, but firmly. He had kept a wary eye trained on Richie’s roving the whole time, disapproval and sympathy warring for dominance on his face. The other three had merely looked uncomfortable, while Stan had kept a compassionate eye on his progress from across the room, patience and understanding etched into the exhausted lines of his face.

Good old Stan the Man. Bill hadn’t ever outgrown the need to big brother the lot of them, and they’d all understood of course, after everything with Georgie, and they’d always allowed it out of love. But Stan had never parented, had simply stayed patient and waited, always ready to jump in to fix Richie up from whatever stupid bullshit he got himself tangled into when his emotions overtook his logic and he’d just act.

Richie was suddenly fiercely glad that their twenty-two years apart hadn’t changed this. Eddie had been his best friend, but Stan always had been his rock, and Jesus Roosevelt Christ, is he ever swept up in a storm right now. 

“What?” he asked Bill, “I’m only saying, if I were an interior decorator and _I_ had to design a hospital waiting room, I wouldn’t choose the main features to be the colour of fucking _blood_ is all. I’m so _fucking_ tired of looking at fucking _blood.”_

“Sit down, Richie.” Bill sighed, fingers rubbing at the arch of his eyebrows. “We won’t k-know anything about Eddie until the d-doctor comes back out and tells us. There’s no p-point pacing around like this. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” 

And - okay, maybe this shouldn’t have made him as angry as it had. Maybe it was the result of sleep deprivation, clown-induced stress, the guilty sickness of knowing that he had let the man he loves get staked through the chest despite having the forewarning to stop it. It could have been a hangover from the classic Derry feeling of always being two seconds away from a hate crime, and the bone-deep desperation to keep that one secret away from his friends, just that one thing, please, please, please. 

Or - and here’s an idea - it could have been that nobody in this room, with the exception of true-to-the-very-last Stanley Uris, had wanted to carry Eddie out of the caves, giving him up for dead.

This last thought is what really seals the deal for him. He loves Bill, he really does, but if that’s the game that Big Bill wants to play, then let’s play fucking ball. 

Richie stills. He turns on his heel to direct toward Bill an award-winning, perfectly friendly, polite celebrity smile. T-minus sixty seconds. 

“Listen, Bill,” Richie said, “I know this may be a foreign concept to you, since you, you know, wanted so badly to let Eddie die down there in the caves along with almost everybody else here. But some of us - I’d hazard a guess at two, at last moral count - are feeling a little bit anxious to know if he’s alright. Hope you can understand why that might make it difficult for me to sit still right about now.”

T-minus 30 seconds. Ben and Mike had stayed quiet, but Bev’s eyes had filled with tears, and her head had fallen to her hands. Bill’s face, however, turns bright red at once, and he jumps out of his chair to stand up face-to-face with Richie.

“That’s not f-fucking fair to say, Richie. We all thought he was d-dead, and we didn’t want anybody else to d-die down there t-too. We were trying to p-protect you! You’re not the only one who’s concerned about h-him!”

“Really?” Richie says, allowing the anger to now properly lace through his words. “No, actually, you’re - you’re right Bill. My apologies. I know Stanley is also pretty concerned.”

Stan’s eyes had fallen shut, and the air stood still for a brief second. Now the explosion. T-minus zero seconds. 

“You don’t have a monopoly on b-being worried about him just b-because you’re in fucking l-love with him!” Bill shouted, eyes bright and fists clenched at his side. 

“Bill!” Stan said sharply, eyes flying open in a flash as his hand came to rest on Richie’s arm, grasping tightly just below his elbow. But Richie couldn't feel it. His entire body had gone cold. It’s - been about twenty-two years since he’s felt this particular cocktail of emotions and he needs a second for his body to remember how to cope with the feeling.

Horror and relief. Each trying to cancel the other out, but when the levels are equal, all it can do is shove an arm right between your ribs and twist, and twist, and twist. The horror of having that one thing, the only secret he had ever kept held so tightly to his chest, protecting it like a little fledgling bird, out in the open. Thrown there like a crime. The relief of it finally being there. Because the moment that is happening right now, the reckoning that will be held in the ruins and devastation of this hospital waiting room after the bomb’s detonation, scraps of plastic and linoleum strewn about, is the one moment that Richie Tozier has feared most his entire life.

Hadn’t he waited? For when Bowers would call him a _goddamn cocksucking fairy_ one time too many and his friends would think to themselves, just for a second. For Eddie to look up a split second too early and recognize the tenderness, the longing in his eyes as he watched him. For his face to twist in disgust. For Went and Maggie to hear that rumour just one more time around town, for them to shake their heads and finally write him off as the sick disappointment he’s always known that he is. For Pennywise to make good on his promises, _Want a kiss, Richie? I know your secret. Your dirty little secret._ _Should I tell them, Richie?_

It’s out there now. And though he knows that it’s the last time that any of them will ever look at him the same way again, maybe even the last time they ever talk to him, it’s out there. And the worst part is that nobody even looks surprised. Ben is apprehensive. Mike is downcast. Bev is rattled. Stan is blazing with protective anger. But not a single one looks like it’s a surprise to them to know that this entire time they’ve had a pathetic, lovestricken fag in their midst. 

It reminds him of when they were kids and had to decide who would be It for a game of tag. They’d had a whole laundry list of potential rhymes they would use to decide, of course: Eenie Meenie Miney Mo, Bubblegum Bubblegum, Black Shoe, the list goes on. But Black Shoe had been quick and easy enough, and it’s to this one that his mind goes to now.

He can see it, clear as if it were yesterday. The seven of them standing in a circle, everybody’s foot stuck in, Stan’s brogues, Bev’s keds, Richie’s converse, Eddie’s fucking KangaRoos with the side pocket for his pills. Big Bill would tap each of their feet with his index finger in turn as he’d carefully recite, so as not to stutter, _black-shoe-black-shoe-how-old-are-you?_ And it’s - the thing was that they all already knew how old everybody there was. Obviously. So you couldn’t exactly lie about it. But that’s how the game works - you wait there patiently until the person whose foot is tapped tells you how old they are, and you’d go on counting from there. _One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven-twelve-thirteen_ , _Ben you’re out!_ Something sweet and sacred about that patience, that allowance. 

That’s how Richie had felt standing there in front of God and the Losers, and the eight or so strangers dotted around the room, so exposed that his nerves may as well be hanging right outside of his body. A question that everybody knows the answer to, but nobody will say a word until you make the choice to fess up. That’s how it’s meant to go. Playground honour rules. 

Big Bill had gone and changed the rules on him. He’d called out Richie’s age before Richie had even been ready to count shoes.

The room smells like rust. Richie doesn’t feel attached to his body.

“Richie,” Stan is saying to him when the sound rushes back into his ears, voice as gentle as a newborn lamb. “Richie, let’s talk a walk. Come on.”

“Why?” Richie asks, voice as empty as a grave, wishing he was in one. “Is it uncomfortable for everybody, me being here? Because Bill’s right, you know. I am in love with Eddie. Have been my whole life. Sorry if that’s hard to hear, that everybody was right about me all along. Maybe you should have punched me harder that summer. Maybe you should have listened to Bowers and cut me back when we were kids, instead of keeping around a _cocksucking fairy_ like me. Who knows. Think I’ll give you AIDS if you look at me too long?” 

He feels out of control. All of his friends are talking now, voices overlapping. The man in the corner has looked up from his phone. The nurses have paused in their rounds. Nobody else says a word until a doctor steps out into the room; turns her gaze to Richie.

“Mr. Tozier?” she says kindly. “The tests are complete; Edward is ready to have visitors again, if you want to head on back in.”

Richie hums in acknowledgement. He shakes off Stan’s grip. He won’t even look at any of the others. But he does turn back to Bill, one last time.

“What do you think, Bill?” Richie asks. “Is it safe for him?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He goes back to Eddie.

  
  


-⛽️- 

  
  


Which brings Richie to where he is now, back seizing from having sat in this plastic hard-backed chair for fourteen straight hours, hand gripping tight to Eddie’s, phone shoved quickly back into his pocket, and heart leaden and heavy in his chest. 

Richie Tozier has not had a perfect track record of making good decisions of late. This is what he thinks about as he sits there now. Undeniable fact.

The list of these decisions, if he were inclined to make one, might look something like this:

  1. Answered Mike’s phone call in the first place, like a dumbass.
  2. Returned to Derry, like a dumbass.
  3. Realized that he’s still in love with Eddie Kaspbrak, like a pathetic dumbass. 
  4. Followed Bill down into the sewers for the _second time_ in his life, like a dumbass.
  5. Once down there, hadn’t stopped Eddie from getting skewered even after seeing it happen in the Deadlights, like a dumbass. 
  6. Publicly broke down in the hospital waiting room, like a dumbass.
  7. Hasn’t left Eddie’s bedside once unless forced, not even to shower, like a gross dumbass.



Richie is starting to suspect that he might be a dumbass.

On one hand - he was class valedictorian, voracious reader, always very politically involved, a keen eye for science and numbers. On the other hand - the dumbass list remains pretty compelling.

Weighing the two against each other, he has to come to an obvious conclusion.

“Yeah,” Richie says, out loud. “Guess that settles it. Richie Tozier is a big old dumbass.” 

“I could h’v - could have told you that.” a voice murmurs back. 

Richie’s head flashes up, so quick that it sets off a burning in his neck, a throbbing behind his temples. That’s Eddie’s voice. Those are Eddie’s Bambi eyes, looking back at him, pupils the size of Jupiter. That’s Eddie’s hand squeezing his back.

Richie lurches forward, he can’t control it. He smashes a hand into the Call Button for the nurses as he goes down, but goes down he does. The sobs come bursting out of him like they have been waiting to fall for years and years instead of just one week. His chest heaves and heaves, and he can’t catch his breath. His mouth presses hard but gentle, so gentle against Eddie’s shoulder. 

“Rich,” Eddie murmurs, concern clear enough even through the rushing of Richie’s ears. “Don’t cry, Rich, please. You’re okay. I’m okay.” 

“Eddie, god - I thought. Thought you’d died down there, thought you wouldn’t wake up.” Richie takes a shuddering breath in, attempting to calm himself, and scrubs a hand over his eyes. “Sorry, I’m sorry. Christ. I’m just really glad that you’re awake.”

“ ‘s okay,” Eddie says, laying back, hand still holding tight to Richie’s. “But - what happened down there? Did we kill him? Are all the others okay?”

“Yeah, Eds. We got him. Crushed his stupid heart.” Richie gives a watery smile. “The others are fine. Sorry to say that you’re the only drama queen here.”

“Shut _up.”_ Eddie laughs, relieved at the news. “God, you’re such an ass.”

Richie shrugs. “As advertised, Eddie my love.”

His heart stutters out a warning at the slip.

“Where are all the others, then?” Eddie asks, ignoring this. “Didn’t they care enough to join you in wallowing by my bedside?”

Richie stiffens. He quells the part of his brain that lights up with the memory of his friends swimming happily in the quarry in that other timeline. And he can’t exactly explain why they’re not here now, why they’re all avoiding each other. 

“I’m not exactly on speaking terms with them right now.” he settles on finally. “So, uh - I don’t know. But they’ve all been here, every day. None of us have left.”

Eddie’s brow furrows, mouth parting in surprise at the first part. “Really? Even Stan?”

“Not Stan.” Richie concedes. “Everyone else, I guess.”

“But - fucking _why_?” Eddie asks, lost. “I’ve only been out for - wait. How long have I been out?”

“A week.” Richie tells him. “Longer than I’ve ever slept in, and you used to get on my ass for that _all_ the time, so take a moment of humility to notice how the tables have turned here.”

“Oh,” Eddie says. “Well. I guess that explains all the snot and tears you got on my bed, then.”

“Shit, sorry Eddie,” Richie says, springing back and patting uselessly at his bedsheets. He only means to say it once, to apologize for getting Eddie’s sheets all snotty and tear-stained, but it’s suddenly like he can’t stop. He didn’t keep Eddie safe in the restaurant, he couldn’t keep him safe from Bowers’ knife, he couldn’t keep him safe from impalement down in the caves, even when he knew it was coming, he didn’t keep him safe from god only knows what these past twenty-two years. “I’m sorry, Eds, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry -”

Eddie makes a sound of distress at this, strokes gentling on his hands. Richie can hear footsteps headed toward the room, but Eddie gets what he says next out before they can make it in.

“Richie.” and Eddie’s voice is firm now, fingers tilting his chin up so that their faces are parallel. “Not to me. Are you listening? I don’t ever want you to apologize to me. Whatever it is that you’re so sorry for, it’s not your fault. And if it matters that much to you, you have my forgiveness. Always. Nod that you understand.”

There is a beat of silence as the two of them study one another. 

“Okay bossy boots,” Richie finally says wetly, scrubbing a hand under his nose. “I’ve got it.” 

  
  


-⛽️-

Richie has been banished. 

Just for an hour, to be clear. Him and Eddie had played catch-up for hours and hours, but after Nurse Felicia had mentioned offhand how lucky Eddie was to have such a good friend, someone who hasn’t left his side once in eight days, his gaze had turned thunderous. And with that, Richie has been sent out with orders to find food and take a fucking shower, for fuck’s sake Richard. 

But that’s - it’s okay. With Eddie finally awake, Richie feels like he can breathe easy for the first time in a week.

He’s even feeling more optimistic about the situation with his friends. After all, they _had_ texted him after everything that had gone down in the waiting room, and what’s more, they texted to apologize. That doesn’t feel like something that they would do if they were disgusted by him, or angry still about what had been said. 

The hot shower at the Townhouse does him wonders; it feels as if all of his stress and upset is washed down the drain alongside the water. After a much needed change of clothes and a quick sandwich and coffee, Richie checks his watch. It’s been an hour and five minutes - he’s in the clear.

It’s on the way back to the hospital that his phone starts buzzing again.

**Stan the Man |** **_1m Ago_ ** **:** Richie, where are you.

 **Stan the Man |** **_2m Ago_ ** **:** Call me as soon as you s…

 **Stan the Man |** **_3m Ago_ **: Richie, promise me you’re not pani…

 **Big Bill |** **_4m Ago_ ** **:** I swear, I didn’t know th...

 **Big Bill |** **_5m Ago_ ** **:** Oh god. Richie I’m so sor…

 **Ringwald |** **_5m Ago_ **: Are you okay? Where ar…

 **Eds💕|** **_10m Ago:_ ** Did you mean it?

**Steve Covall (50) Missed Calls**

Christ. They’re laying it on a bit thick now, aren’t they? 

But it’s fine, he’s almost to the hospital. Once he’s there, he can hash it out with them. As long as Eddie is none the wiser, he can get everything back on track and put it all behind him so they can all go forward from there. 

Walking into the Bangor Hospital ICU waiting room feels, for the first time since he’s gotten here, like walking a red carpet, and not in a good way. _Everybody_ seems to be looking at him as he walks in. Which is - he’s relatively famous, sure, but he’s not gotten recognized the entire week he’s been here, or if he has people have been too polite, or sensitive, to make a big deal of it. And on another disquieting note - none of his friends are in the waiting room. Which means they must all be in with Eddie.

Okay. So he’ll wait to hash it out with them until later, but it’s not like it’s a hardship to spend extra time with the man he loves.

He hears Stan and Mike before he sees them, right before he turns the corner to the hallway that contains Eddie’s room. 

“You haven’t heard from him at all?”

“ _No_ , Mike, you know I haven’t! Eddie said he just sent him off for a shower and food, but Ben didn’t see him at the Townhouse and I don’t know where the hell he is or if he’s okay!”

Fucking weirdos.

“Woah,” Richie laughs, turning the corner and holding his hands up to his friends with a grin. “I’m fine? I just stopped for a coffee. What’s all the panic?”

Stan gapes at him for a second, a complicated array of emotions flicking across his face. “Richie, you - have you checked your phone? At all?”

Richie snorts. “What, to read more apologies? I told you I wasn’t ready to talk, man.”

With this, he rolls his eyes and steps forward to knock at Eddie’s door, ignoring whatever Mike and Stan are trying to say to him, but it’s the second before he steps into the room that he hears it.

“ _Is it uncomfortable for everybody, me being here? Because Bill’s right, you know. I am in love with Eddie. Have been my whole life. Sorry if that’s hard to hear, that everybody was right about me all along…”_

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Richie’s entire body turns to ice.

His head flashes up in horror, eyes meeting Eddie’s shell-shocked own from across the room. Bill is sitting in Richie’s usual seat, while Ben and Bev flank the other side of the hospital bed. The sound is coming from Bill’s phone, which rests now in Eddie’s hands.

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t _fucking understand what’s happening._ Did Bill tape him? And for what? To show to Eddie as, as some sort of revenge for the words he said back in the waiting room last night? He doesn’t think that’s something Bill would do, but it’s him in Richie’s seat, and it’s his phone blaring the incriminating video in Eddie’s hands now, so what the fuck else is he supposed to think?

He stumbles around, turning desperately to escape the trap of Eddie’s gaze, ignoring the man calling after him from the bed (“Richie! Richie, come back, I -”). Mike reaches for him as he goes, but he flings his hand off, and then it’s Stan gripping him tightly, halfway down the hall from Eddie’s still-ajar door. 

“Stan, _what_ ,” Richie says desperately. “What is - did Bill -”

“It was some fucking lowlife in the waiting room, Rich. They started taping when they recognized you and fucking sold the video - Eddie asked to use Bill’s phone to send a text before his was charged, and it came up as breaking news, Bill didn’t even know. I’m so fucking sorry.” Stan holds out his phone for Richie. ****

> **TMZ ✔️ @TMZ**
> 
> Trashmouth Tozier spills the beans! In a recently surfaced video that has since gone viral, the infamous lady-killing comic dramatically comes out to horror author and friend, Bill Denbrough! All that we want to know - who’s the lucky Eddie? Watch it all unfold here: bit.ly/hsv3hd 

“Right,” Richie says, “Right. Well - I need to. Bathroom.”

And before Stan can protest, Richie is off, tearing Stan’s arm from his own with the force of how swiftly he retreats. The linoleum is still immaculate. The clock on the wall is tick-tick-ticking in his ears. The hallways smells like disinfectant. The paintings on the wall are bland and non-threatening. Richie catalogues these sensations rather than allow his thoughts to wander freely. He just needs to get to the bathroom.

More accurately, he needs to get to somewhere with a window exit. 

  
  


-⛽️-

  
  


It turns out that Richie has been driving for two and a half hours.

There wasn’t too much thought put into the escape, to be completely honest. His first priority was to get to an exit, the next was to get out of Bangor. Like last week, when he climbed down the fire escape of the Townhouse before Stan had found him and talked him down, Richie acted before he stopped to consider the consequences.

The only thing that had stopped him from skipping town then was the fact that whatever he had said before, he couldn't leave if it meant his friends would suffer for it. But not so this time - thankfully Richie knows that all of them are safe now, and what’s more, he was lucky enough to see Eddie conscious and in good spirits before he had to leave.

But now that secrets are out there where they shouldn’t be, it was time to split. It wasn’t enough to get out of the building that Eddie was in - he couldn’t stand to be in the same city. 

With this in mind, only three things registered to him as he busted open the window of the bathroom and climbed out: 

  1. He knows that Eddie is safe. 
  2. Eddie knows the one thing about him that he was never meant to. 
  3. Richie needed to be gone yesterday. 



And so, hours of mindless driving later, here he is. Passing a charming little sign reading WELCOME TO KENNEBUNKPORT, and pulling exhaustedly into the mostly empty parking lot of their local Denny’s. 

With the ignition off, and the radio dead, everything from the past day starts to catch up to Richie very quickly. It’s emotional whiplash - the waiting room blow-up, Eddie’s regaining consciousness, the revelation of his most precious secret for the whole world to see and laugh at. His heart hurts. 

Richie’s head falls down, forehead coming to rest on the top of the rental’s steering wheel.

He sits there, just like that, back painfully hunched and steering wheel impressions being made on his forehead for who knows how long. It could be seconds or it could be hours later that he comes to again to hear shouting outside his window. Sue him for it, but it’s something of a welcome distraction to hear somebody else’s life going to hell for once, and Richie unrolls his window subtly so as to hear better. 

“I don't care what you think about it! It’s how it is, and you can take it or fuckin’ leave it, but either way I’ve said my piece and I’m done listening to this.”

The sound is coming from a young woman across the parking lot, face vaguely familiar. Her wavy brown hair comes down to just underneath her chin, and she’d all decked out in what Richie may generously call her lumberjack best - red flannel, sherpa jean jacket, great big black fuck-off boots.

“Sandy,” an older gentleman sighs back, bald-headed and fingers coming up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Just get in the car. We can talk about this at home. No need to make such a big fuss in a public place.”

The woman, Sandy apparently, laughs bitterly at this.

“Uh, no. I don’t fucking think so. You can get in your own damn car; I’m getting the hell out of here.”

“Sandy -” the man calls, but the woman is already stomping away in the direction of Richie’s car. She pauses at the end of the lot to light a cigarette, body still stubbornly turned against the direction of (probably) her father. The man waits for a few minutes more, but when Sandy lights up her third cigarette, he finally gives up, getting into his car and pulling out into the street.

Well.

Richie feels a little bad about earlier, thinking he could use this to distract from his own misery. He’s not somebody who likes seeing other people in distress, and his natural desire to get someone laughing while they’re down has him sighing, locking up his own vehicle, and hopping out to make his way over to her. 

“Hey,” he calls when he’s a few yards away, not wanting to startle her or look like some weirdo. “You alright? I - heard. You know. All of that.” He gestures vaguely toward where the man’s car previously sat. 

Sandy turns to him in surprise, shoulders coming up defensively. But after a beat her face screws up, and her shoulders relax just a fraction. “Do I know you? You look familiar.” 

Ugh. If she’s about to mention the video, Richie may have to rethink his divine capacity for compassion.

“Uh,” he says, figuring out how best to word it. He _is_ pretty famous, but he’s not going to just say that like a fucking douchebag. And not to forget he’s in the middle of nowhere Maine, so the chances of anyone knowing him here are slim and if they have, portend an unfavourable outcome. “I’m a comedian? I’ve like. Been on SNL and stuff.”

Sandy looks at him blankly and shrugs. “Sorry, I don’t watch comedy.”

Richie grins, relieved and a bit charmed despite himself. Oh to talk to the one person who hasn't been keeping up on the latest celeb drama. Suck on that Bangor Hospital ICU waiting room. “Nah, it’s all good. But do I know you? You seem pretty familiar yourself.’

Sandy throws down the cigarette butt, stubs it out with the toe of her boots. “I’m a model. Been in Vogue and stuff.”

Richie looks at her just as blankly, shrugging. “Sorry, I don’t read magazines.”

Sandy grins at this, seeming just as relieved as Richie to be a non-entity. She holds out her hand to him. “Perfect. My name’s Sandy Reilly. You are?”

“Richie Tozier,” he replies, shaking her hand. “Known to friends as Trashmouth.”

“Nice to meet ya Trashmouth,” Sandy says. “What brings you to the parking lot of a fine breakfast establishment like this in the middle of Buttfuck Nowhere Maine?

Well she’s got his name now. He’d be surprised if she didn’t google him as soon as she gets the chance to, just to make sure he is who he says he is and not just some creep perving on a famous model. He’d do the same, if he were her. Richie hadn’t exactly planned on testing the public waters quite so soon, but she hasn't seen the video and this may his one chance to explain things on his own terms. Yolo or whatever. All she can really do is discourage him from sticking around for some consolatory breakfast foods.

“My comedic brand is built on pretending I’m some womanizing frat bro, and TMZ just released a video of me publicly breaking down in a hospital waiting room while confessing my lifelong gay love for my best friend. Where else to go when you’re outed and miserable but to drive hours away and drown your sorrows in mediocre pancakes?”

Nailed it.

Sandy stares at him for a moment, before bursting into laughter, her hands coming down to slap against her thighs as she doubles at the waist. It’s not - what Richie had expected, or even really wanted, for a first reaction. But at least she wasn’t throwing fists or brandishing a cross and declaring him some sort of degenerate which is about what he expects from Maine, so he’ll take it. It’s not near as bad as looking up to see Eddie’s wide eyes, shocked and at a loss for words, at Mike's pitying face, Bill's guilty frown, Stan's disaster-mode problem solving. 

“Wow,” Richie says dryly, “Thanks. Not the reaction I was hoping for while it’s all still raw and sensitive, but okay, word.” 

Sandy holds a hand, flapping it dismissively at him. She takes a second to catch her breath before looking back up at him, coming to just about under his chin when fully upright.

“No, no, sorry,” she says, standing now and grinning at him. “It’s just - the shouting match with my dad you saw earlier. He just found out I’m a lesbian, and you know. Guess he didn’t order a dyke back at the hospital all those years ago, but no returns allowed so tough luck on that one. It’s not as bad as being splashed all over Twitter, but still.” 

Richie looks down at her boots, at his own black sneakers. _Black-shoe-black-shoe-how-old-are-you?_

“Oh, solidarity.” Richie says, holding out his hand for a fist-bump.

“Solidarity.” Sandy grins back, hand coming up to complete the gesture.

-⛽️-

This is not where he had seen himself winding up five hours ago, but really, it's not too bad.

Him and Sandy are perched now on the hood of his car, making their way through a stack of pancakes and trading life stories like two gay war vets at a picnic table over a game of chess. Richie’s unrequited love, and Sandy’s recent breakup with her girlfriend. They'd apparently broken up over Sandy's reluctance to come out to her parents, and Kay's hurt at feeling like a kept secret. Sandy was here on a surprise redemption tour.

“So where do you go from here, then?” Sandy asks him now, through a mouthful of maple syrup. “Back to Cali, or what?”

Richie sighs, stabbing a plastic fork at the stack pathetically, not actually spearing anything, just acting out the motions to feel something. “Dunno. I didn’t exactly plan for any of this. I needed to get out of town, but it seems a bit dickish to jump the state while he’s still hospitalized and all.” 

Sandy nods thoughtfully, Richie’s despondency not stopping her from stealing his pancake from right underneath him. He pouts theatrically, but a sharp ache pierces his chest at the action as he suddenly misses his own little gremlin who would so often do the same the morning after sleepovers. _You snooze you lose, Richard._ _Hands off my fucking flapjacks._

“Yeah, I get your point. I’m not too keen on getting back to Chicago myself until I'm sure Kay'll take me back.” she says, and the two of them sit in a despondent silence for a few minutes more, Sandy spearing a few more pancakes from him before her face lights up.

“Dude! I’ve got it! The answer to both of our problems!” 

Richie looks up at her, startled. “What? Are we both moving? Are we starting a Sad Gay Losers commune out in Nebraska?”

“No,” she says dismissively, once again waving her hand at him, ignoring the bit about Nebraska. He’s beginning to think it may be unconscious. “Road trip! You and me, baby! Neither of us want to go home, and neither of us feel like we can leave the state! Route 1, s'called the Lobster Trail.”

Richie makes an _ew_ face, looking as if he had just swallowed a lemon. Christ his life has taken a turn these past few weeks.

“I don’t actually like lobster much. That’s probably reason number two after being a giant homo that Maine never wanted me.” 

“Work with me here, man” Sandy says impatiently. “It’s just called that. We don’t need to eat lobster. Let’s just - fuck off. I have a week until I need to be back in Chicago and pack my stuff up from Kay’s place or be accepted crawling back. What, you were all in for a sad gay commune but you can’t handle a sad gay road trip?” 

It’s - not actually the worst idea he’s ever heard. He _doesn’t_ feel like he can leave Maine while Eddie’s still bound here, and he can’t well go home. And - Sandy is fun. Maybe he deserves to just forget about all the fucking misery and trauma of this month for awhile and just _go_ , just run somewhere nobody knows him with somebody who doesn’t have a close, intimate connection with all of his baggage. 

“Alright,” Richie says. “Let’s do this. But you’re planning, I’m shit with direction.” That’s what Eddie had always been for. Hopefully Sandy has the same uncanny way with navigation.

Sandy shrugs. “I’ll just grab a guide off of google. I'm sure we'll be fine.”

So maybe not like Eddie after all.

  
  


-⛽️-

**KENNEBUNKPORT [Monday, Tuesday]**

Kennebunkport is, apparently, the beach destination of Maine. 

Richie learns this the hard way. It begins with him and Sandy driving along the highway, idle conversation being made, when Whitney comes on the radio. 

“This is my fucking jam!” Richie shouts, reaching a hand over to turn the dial loud and clearing his throat to better sing along. “ _Ooooh I wanna dance with somebody! I wanna feel the HEAT with somebody!”_ At ‘heat’, Richie voices raises to a high-pitched falsetto, and Sandy shrieks with laughter, phone held aloft. After keeping the shaky camera trained on him for another verse, she turns the camera on herself, struggling to keep a straight face.

“So I’m not sure who Richie Tozier is, but I’m in the car right now with Barry Gibb.” she tells it solemnly. “Incredible. I’ve always been such a big fan of the Bee Gees.” As she speaks, Richie fumbles one-handed with his phone, ignoring the texts filling up his screen and fluidly navigating to Spotify. Before she notices, he switches songs, transitioning seamlessly from Whitney’s _I wanna dance with somebody,_ to, 

“ _What you doin’ on your back, aah?_ _You should be dancing, yeah! Dancing, yeah!”_ His throat is starting to feel the strain of keeping up the falsetto, but Sandy is laughing and he can feel his heart lightening for what feels like the first time in forever, so he lets himself continue. 

“Kennebunkport, you are _not_ ready for this!” Sandy cheers.

Richie pauses in his performance to throw his hands up. “Oh, way to go Sandy, just blow up our location one day in like that!” 

Sandy blows a raspberry at him, but puts her phone down to get back to googling some spots for them to hit along the way.

And at least she _appreciates_ his Barry Gibb impression - the losers couldn’t stand it at all, groaning loudly whenever he’d clear his throat in preparation for it. This wasn’t exactly unfair - the first time had been when the seven of them were walking home after that first time down in the sewers, and the heavy silence and undercurrent of anxiety had ignited in him the compulsive need to start an impromptu performance of Stayin’ Alive. This was tasteless - yes - but it wouldn’t have been quite so bad or any different from his usual levels of tastelessness had he not forgotten that the chorus began with _Whether you’re a brother or whether you’re a mother, you’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive._ Bill’s face had already turned white, and Eddie and Stan had already closed their eyes in resignation when his brain had caught up with his mouth and he’d panickedly switched over to We Are the Champions. But too late - the damage was done, and Eddie had grabbed his arm and veered the two of them off to walk home separately. 

The song ends, and Richie mimes painful voice loss while Sandy unsympathetically ignores him, scrolling through her phone to find their next destination. When her face lights up, he knows he’s in trouble.

“Richie!” she says, brandishing her phone in his face while he bats it out of the way, car swerving with a curse. “How do you feel about beaches? Because - you’re gonna love this - Kennebunkport is apparently the beach capital of Maine, and they have one called _Gooch’s Beach_ . Fucking _Gooch_. Tell me we don’t have to go to that.”

Richie, who had opened his mouth to tell her that he’s gotten more than enough beaches living in California, thanks, now pauses. _Gooch’s Beach_. Damn. She’s got him there. 

-⛽️-

“Just trust me!” Sandy laughs, grabbing Richie’s shoulders to direct him to the gas station across the street. “I’m a _model_ , dude, I know how to dress someone!”

“Oh, you’re an expert in men’s swimwear now, are you?” Richie says skeptically. “I don’t see why I can’t go in to choose my own goddamn bathing suit -”

Sandy throws her arms up in the air. “Because you’re on snacks! One of us has to be on snacks! And if it’s me, I’ll just get us vegan everything to spite you.”

“Disgusting.” Richie says fondly. “Alright, fine, but you’d better not choose something that makes me look terrible. I have very specific angles that need to be taken into account.”

Sandy looks silently at Richie’s button-up, today’s special being white background patterned with little dancing bananas. 

“Yes,” she agrees. “I can see how 'terrible' would be a departure for you.” 

“Rude,” Richie says, turning his back and walking away toward the gas station. He walks in, shoving his baseball cap lower over his eyes as he browses the shelves. Doritos, yes, skittles, yes, gummy bears, yes. He pulls snacks off the shelf at random, and makes his way over to the attendant waiting at the cash register. It’s when he’s about two feet away that his attention is caught by the little chest freezer placed by the automatic doors, the kind that keeps popsicle brand posters advertised on the top.

Rocket pops. 

He’s halted in his tracks, struck by the memory of a much younger Eddie and Richie, standing outside in the sweltering heat. _How about a lick on your Rocket?_ Eddie had asked, fingers already reaching out to grab at his popsicle. Richie had prevaricated, cracking jokes about germs and Mrs. K, holding it out of Eddie’s reach. But he’d finally relented after Eddie’s stubborn little _I’ll chance it_ , and it wasn’t the part that you might think that had struck him in the moment, nor does now. The unintentional innuendo - sure, there was an argument for it. There was even an effect from it. But it was the fact that famously germaphobic Eddie had been comfortable enough to share his food with Richie alone, as well as that presumptuous little hand grab as if he knew before asking that Richie would share with him that had wormed their way into his heart. 

Well, whatever. Fucking stupid. He wasn’t here for popsicles. 

Richie pays for the junk, and heads out to meet Sandy back at the rental car to wait as she finishes up buying them beachwear. He’s already broken into the Doritos when he sees her hurrying over from across the street, a mischievous grin painted on her face. He knows he’s fucked when she starts blurting out explanations before she’s even cleared the crosswalk. 

“Listen!” she calls out to him, “Just, before you say anything, I was totally going to go in there and get you something good, something normal. I was! But I just - I couldn’t help it, and your fashion choices are already so _bold_ , so _imaginative_ , I thought who else but my friend Richie Tozier would be brave enough for this?”

“Oh, fuck,” Richie says, warmed by her use of ‘friend’, but closing his eyes and praying to whatever god was listening that this wasn’t going to be as bad as he suspects. “Fuck. Fuck, okay. Hit me with it. I can take it.”

Sandy grins, wide and catlike. 

She holds out the bag.

“Dare you.” she says. 

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s never going to be allowed to forget this.

  
  


-⛽️-

  
  


Never let it be said that Richie Tozier has ever backed down from a dare. 

He never has, not as a child and not as a grown man. It’s his specialty, isn’t it? Taking any dare that came his way, doing anything possible to distract from the fact that he’d never choose truth. Streaking naked down Kansas St., swapping clothes, doing prank calls. Anything imaginable that didn’t require emotional honesty. 

The only time his friends had come close to truly questioning it was in 1991, when they were all fifteen and gathered for a weekend sleepover at Bill’s place. After a couple of movies, they had come to playing Truth or Dare, and Richie’s stomach had clenched with the usual fear when it was suggested. And to make matters worse, there was a clear theme going around - Bev, Mike, Bill, anyone who picked Truth was asked who it was from school that they _liiiiked_. His nightmare scenario. 

Finally it was Ben’s turn to ask, his attention turning to Richie. 

“Alright, Rich,” he grinned, expectant. “Truth or Dare?”

“Dare of course, my good fellow!” Richie simpered back, affecting the British Gentleman. But Bill had groaned, throwing his head back onto the seat of the armchair he was propped up against.

“Richie, you _never_ choose Truth,” he said, “Come on. Aren’t you tired of doing a bunch of stupid b-bullshit just so you never have to answer a q-question?”

“Negative, sir!” Richie said back, shaking his head, hoping Bill would drop it quickly. He did not.

“Fine,” Bill said, a challenging glint in his eye as he faced Richie, “I’ve got a d-dare for you, then, if you’re so c-committed.”

“Actually, it’s Ben’s turn to -” Stan started, but Bill cut him off.

“I d-dare you to go over and egg Hockstetter’s h-house.” Bill finished,grinning triumphantly. And the thing was, Bill didn’t even mean badly by this, no matter what it sounded like. He had genuinely thought that there was no chance that Richie would accept this dare, that he’d concede to Truth in lieu of it, or he never even would have thought of suggesting it.

But Richie’s insides turned to ice, because he, of course, knew that the exact opposite would happen. Fuck. He hopes his mom has some frozen peas at home. 

“Bill!” Eddie said, face scrunched up angrily, demanding tone in his voice, “ _No._ Hockstetter would kill him. Give him something else.”

Stan hadn’t looked away from Richie since Bill had laid down this gauntlet, and Richie could tell from the look in his eyes that he knew what was about to happen just as well as he did. A shadow fell over his face, as he tried, like Eddie, to stop the situation in its tracks.

“Come on, guys. This game is stupid, let’s just put on another movie.” Stan said, but Bill had shaken his head again.

“R-richie can choose Truth if he doesn’t want to d-do it.” Bill said simply, waiting for Richie to agree and allow him (or Ben) to ask him that one question. But Richie had looked straight in Bill’s eyes, walked into the kitchen to retrieve an egg carton from the Denbrough’s fridge, and stood up to shove his sneakers back on.

“Be back soon,” Richie said, throwing a salute to the lot of them. Everyone had stood up then, calling after him, Bill retracting his previous dare once they realized Richie was so determined. _Too little, too late_ , Richie had thought bitterly. And of course he’d gone to Patrick’s house, and of course he’d tripped outside and gotten caught, and of course his nose was broken for it. But he’d successfully avoided Truth, and the incident had shaken his friends enough that he didn’t have to worry about the game for a long time afterwards, which to him spelled out a win. Bloodstained shirt and all. 

Which leads him to where he is now, clad proudly in a cheetah-print speedo on Gooch’s Beach, Kennebunkport, Maine, United States. Sandy stands beside him in a plain black one-piece, hooting and hollering, generally making a nuisance of herself to the end of attracting attention towards Richie. 

“Look at _that_ !” she wolf whistles, affecting a swoon. “Men of Maine, this hunk is _single_!”

“Oh my god, shut _up_ ,” Richie laughs, but Sandy isn’t done, letting out a rolling _Rrrrrrrrrr_ and curling her fingers into the shape of a tiger’s claw. Richie pauses for a minute, before conceding, strutting further down the beach and striking his best muscleman pose to the sound of Sandy’s cheers.

And okay, Richie is standing here at a public beach, cheetah-print speedo and banana print button-up flying open. And sure, everyone is looking at him and he’s in suburban Maine so it’s not exactly friendly looks. But regardless of all that, it’s - nice. It’s just really nice. He’s glad that he listened to Sandy, that he met her by chance in that Denny’s parking lot. It’s easier here, with this stranger turned friend, who’s gleefully shouting out his singleness out to men everywhere, to not feel ashamed of who he is. To just feel normal.

He thinks this probably what healing is supposed to feel like. The beginnings of it, anyway.

  
  


-⛽️-

The two of them head over to a place by the name of Rococo’s to get some ice-cream after their beach day, skin buzzing and faces sunburnt, grabbing a small two-person table near the back of the shop. As Richie is looking over the menu to try to decide on a flavour, his phone buzzes and the sound of it rattling on the glass table-top startles him into checking it automatically, forgetting his recent policy of broad ignorance.

> **TMZ ✔️ @TMZ** 3h ago
> 
> Two-timing Tozier? After going MIA following onstage breakdown and viral gay love confession video, comedian Richie Tozier has resurfaced in recent Instagram videos travelling with model Sandy Reilly! Is love in the air? bit.ly/ahf6g7
> 
> **Sandy Reilly** **✔️@SandyR** 2m ago
> 
> @TMZ you need to know that this man is wearing a feckin budgie smuggler as we speak just so you get a sense of how offensive a tweet this was to me

The fucking _injustice_ of it all. 

> **Richie Tozier ✔️@Trashmouth** 0s ago
> 
> @TMZ @SandyR this is SUCH a misrepresentation of the facts, you bought it for me!!! you BOUGHT the cheetah print speedo i was an UNWILLING BUDGIE SMUGGLER

> **Sandy Reilly** **✔️@SandyR** 0s ago
> 
> @TMZ @Trashmouth proof? 😶

Sandy places her phone facedown on the table with a laugh, but before Richie can lay into her for besmirching his good name online, the man working behind the counter walks up to their little table, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“Um - sorry to bother you, but… are you Richie?” Richie’s heart sinks, not wanting to address his recent viral reputation, and especially not at such a public venue. He’s had such a happy, easy-going day and he really doesn’t want it ruined like this. 

“Depends on who’s asking.” he says carefully. 

“Um - this is super weird, but - I guess this is for you?” the man holds out a double scooped ice cream cone. “It’s Goat Cheese Blackberry Chambord and Triple Ginger.” 

“Uh,” Richie says, staring at the monstrosity. Sandy looks just as baffled beside him. “...Thanks? Um. Why?”

In response, the man (Alan, by his nametag) rummages around in his pocket for a slip of paper covered in what looked like hasty scribbles. “Like I said, it’s weird but we got a call earlier today saying that - uh, sorry about this - ‘if a tall Gonzo-looking motherfucker in goggles named Richie comes in for some ice-cream, give him this. And tell him to answer his fucking phone’” The man shrugs. “It’s already paid for and everything.”

Richie’s mouth drops open in astonishment. Motherfucker. _How?_

“I assume they didn’t give a name?” he says, when the shock has lessened enough to allow him to speak. 

“No, sorry.” Alan shrugs. “Lots of beeping going on in the background though, if that helps.”

“Oh, it helps.” Richie says dryly. “Well - cheers, Alan. I’m sure this will taste spectacular.”

Alan walks away, and Sandy waits, practically vibrating in her chair for him to walk far enough away that she can start to interrogate him. 

“ _Who?”_ she whisper screams, “That looks fucking gnarly, dude, do you have an enemy in Maine or something?”

Richie Tozier, with an enemy in Maine. Imagine that. _Well not anymore, I just recently killed him._

Richie sighs, turning his phone over and lighting up his lockscreen, allowing his eyes to take in the flashing text message notifications for the first time in days. 

**Eds💕 |** **_2h Ago_ ** **:** Hope you get an ice-cream headache, assh... 

**Eds💕 |** **_3h Ago_ ** **:** What the hell are you doing i...

 **Stan the Man |** **_5h Ago_ ** **:** Richie please call m…

 **Stan the Man |** **_5h Ago_ ** **:** Eddie isn’t angry, Richie, I r...

 **Big Bill |** **_7h Ago_ ** **:** Please let somebody know wh…

 **Ringwald |** **_7h Ago_ **: Where are you Richie, Stan is l…

 **Eds💕|** **_8h Ago:_ ** Richie, come back I need to tell y...

**Steve Covall (72) Missed Calls**

“Or something.” Richie agrees. Then he sighs and begins to tell her about Eddie, starting from the very beginning.

-⛽️-

“You know, this doesn’t sound too much to me like somebody who hates you,” Sandy says thoughtfully, after an hour's worth of explanation. “And he sent you ice-cream. Are you sure you should be ignoring his texts? Might be worth hearing what he has to say.”

“No, no, _no_ , that is what he _wants_ ,” Richie says, pointing his little plastic ice-cream spoon at her. The flavours weren’t actually half bad in the end, so take that Eddie. “He’s just being an asshole because he wants the last word, like _always_. I’m not falling for it.”

Sandy laughs, gesturing around them. “May not have a choice there, champ. Seems like he knows where you’ll be before you do.”

Richie throws his hands up in the air. “He knows me too well! I can’t help that! What, am I not supposed to stop at ice-cream stores when I’m hungry? _And_ ,” he adds, spoon pointing at her again so that she’s forced to go cross-eyed keeping an eye on it, “This is your fault, anyway. You’re the one who blew our location!”

“Oh, blow me,” Sandy says, “Anyway, it’s not like it’s hard to figure out where a Maine road trip will take you. There’s really only one route, and if he’s got access to google, he’s pretty well got you pinned.”

Richie groans, throwing his head down onto his arms on the table. Sandy tuts symapthetically, reaching over to pat at his head. By the time he looks up, his ice-cream is gone. 

  
  


-⛽️-

  
  


This is not a one-off incident. 

And, yes, Eddie knows him very well. Arguably better than anyone in the world, with the exception of Stan, to whom it is an equal playing field. But it’s getting to the point where he’s paranoid that he's got - cameras, or a tracking chip, or _something_ on him that’s letting Eddie know which exact establishments he plans to frequent. 

Today, him and Sandy are dining in at The Wayfarer’s before they make their way toward Rockland tomorrow morning. He’s made Sandy promise that she won’t take the restaurant up on their special offer of deep-fried lobster, and she’d rolled her eyes but compiled, ordering the quinoa and vegetable stir-fry, while Richie went for a classic hamburger. It’s a good time - good food, good company, perfect weather for patio dining. The view can’t be beat, with the ocean behind them and the sun setting over the shoreline. Richie’s starting to feel more relaxed than he has been for days.

That, is until the waiter come out brandishing a lit birthday cake. And he's cheering.

“We’ve heard it’s a certain Richie’s birthday!” he calls out, a line of waitstaff following along behind him, already clapping. 

“Oh, the fuck it is,” says Richie outraged, while Sandy’s mouth drops wide open beside him. It’s too late. They’ve already started singing. Fuck. 

“ _Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Richie! Happy birthday to you!”_

The cake is held out to him. Neighbouring tables are watching with polite indulgence. Richie sighs internally, but pastes a smile on his face, putting his best acting boots on. Everybody cheers as he blows out the candles, then places the cake onto the table for him and Sandy to enjoy, clapping as they all walk off back into the restaurant.

How the _fuck_.

“Your Eddie acts fast,” Sandy comments, spearing a pepper to pop into her mouth. 

“That little bastard _knows_ I’d feel too awkward to correct them. I’m going to kill him.” Richie says, mouth agape. “How the fuck… this place wasn’t even my _pick_.”

“To kill him you’d have to talk to him,” Sandy points out. “Thought that’s what we were here avoiding.”

Richie scowls at her, then finally takes a look down at the cake in front of him, the view having been obscured by the billowing smoke of the blown-out candles before. Richie smothers a laugh despite himself, smiling behind his hand. That little _bastard_. Emblazoned on the cake, front and centre, is a huge depiction of Looney Tune's Roadrunner, underneath which are printed the words BEEP BEEP. A clear reference to his flight from Bangor and his friends’ predilection for beeping his loud mouth. It's habit at this point to take a glance at his phone.

**Eds💕 |** **_34m Ago_ ** **:** Happy birthday asshole <3

 **Eds💕 |** **_2h Ago_ ** **:** Okay. I can work with t...

 **Stan the Man |** **_5h Ago_ ** **:** Love you.

 **Stan the Man |** **_5h Ago_ ** **:** Oh no you’ve ignited Edd...

 **Big Bill |** **_7h Ago_ ** **:** I get it. I’ll be here when y...

 **Ringwald |** **_7h Ago_ **: We all love you honey. 

**Eds💕|** **_8h Ago:_ ** :)

**Steve Covall (87) Missed Calls**

“Wow,” Sandy says, “Really starting to look like he hates you. I totally see what you mean now. For sure the actions of a man disgusted by your loving public outbursts.”

“ _Fine,”_ Richie says. “Fine, so he might not be mad at me. That doesn't mean that I'm ready to - talk to him. Or face him. Even if this means that my big gay love flies with him for some reason, things between us will change. That’s hardly _better_.”

Sandy stares at him for a long moment, before nodding acceptingly and leaning forward. “Alright. Pass me a slice of the Richie Shame Cake.”

-⛽️-

**ROCKLAND [Wednesday, Thursday]**

The next morning, a picture has been posted to Twitter, of Richie at the Wayfarer’s smiling fondly down at his ‘birthday’ cake, which sucks because now Eddie will know that it charmed him and will never let him forget it. Also because his birthday is unfortunately a very easily verifiable lie, and Richie squirms to think of the waitstaff baffled at his celebration. Fucking Eddie.

But it’s a brand new day, ready for brand new memories to be made. The first day of the rest of his life. All that other Hallmark bullshit. Today will be good.

Today is the day that Sandy and Richie are in Rockland, visiting the Project Puffin Visitor’s Centre (Richie’s pick) to watch some fucking puffins walk around on an island or whatever. He’s stoked.

There they are, climbing aboard the Hardy III to start their Puffin Watch cruise, and Richie already knows that he’s going to be willingly swindled into sponsoring the continued livelihood of these fucking birds. And it has nothing to do with the fact that they’re just short, cute little birds, standing only ten inches tall, with large soulful eyes, or that he’s starting to miss Stan, too. He’s just really invested in animal welfare.

Their cruise takes them around the neighbouring islands for a half hour, binoculars glued to their faces to catch a glimpse of the puffins - and the terns, and the guillemots, the gulls, and the eiders. Richie isn’t a monster so he snaps some pictures for Stan - if he’s still feeling vexed by Richie’s flight by the time he sees them all again - however long away that still realistically feels to him - he can at least use them as a bargaining chip for Stan’s forgiveness. 

The tour itself is interesting enough. Not much to write home about, but certainly a worthwhile use of his time and his thirty dollars. The first half they’re free to simply watch and talk amongst themselves, but it’s on the way back that Richie is truly unzipped.

“Thanks to everyone for joining us today!” the tour guide says, over the loudspeaker to beat the crashing of the waves, “So now that you've had some time to watch and admire the puffins in their natural habitat, I’ll give you all a little bit more information about these fabulous creatures as we make our back toward the dock. First off, you may not think it but these little guys are big romantics! Puffins mate for life - some have been together for up to twenty years! - and they raise their chick together, returning to the same burrow with the same mate every single year.”

Oh god. Oh fuck. Not romantic puffins. He’s been trying so hard not to project here. 

Richie’s eyes begin to tear up without his permission, and Sandy laughs silently at him.

“And puffins are actually much smaller than you may think, only measuring about thirty centimetres from the tip of their beak to the end of their tail! But that doesn’t mean they’re shy - puffins are actually quite the chatterboxes among their breeding colonies, but interestingly remain perfectly silent while at sea. Finally - puffins are strong swimmers, but not so great fliers; and in fact cannot fly unless they have a view of the ocean.”

Enough, Richie prays. No more Eddie parallels on what is supposed to be a lighthearted puffin tour. No making him think of little Eddie Kaspbrak, the most hyperactive chatterbox of their group outings, who would fall silent and brooding the closer he got to his house as curfew drew nearer. The bravest one of them all - but only when his friends were around, or in danger that he could protect them from.

“Rich!” Sandy calls from the portside, “Look at these fucking chunks! I’m in love with them!”

The chunks in question that Sandy is deeply enamoured with turn out to be a visiting group of harbour seals, nearly throwing herself clear off the boat in her enthusiasm, cooing and calling out to them. Richie, wiping his eyes discreetly on his sleeve, dutifully captures this for her. 

> **Richie Tozier ✔️@Trashmouth** 5m ago
> 
> @SandyR has my seal of approval pic.twitter.com/bd7wdhf3
> 
> **Sandy Reilly** **✔️@SandyR** 1m ago
> 
> @Trashmouth flattered you took time out of crying over puffin facts to get these for me ❤️ 
> 
> **Richie Tozier ✔️@Trashmouth** 0s ago
> 
> @SandyR they mate for life sandy 🥺🥺 these birds are romantic 🥺🥺

Back in the gift shop is where Richie is really weak. Him and Sandy are already loaded up with corny puffin (and harbour seal) paraphernalia, when the woman at the counter mentions the option to adopt a puffin in memory or honour of someone. 

Richie’s grin at this could best be described as roguish. 

“Actually, yes, I’d love that. Can you put one down as being adopted for 'Stanley Uris'?” he asks, and the woman hums agreeably, typing the information into the computer in front of her. “And here’s his number so the happy adoption can be digitally delivered to him.”

“And who do you want down as the name of the adopter?” she asks.

“Uh - Richie Tozier is fine.” he says, smiling warily. And it turns out that he was right to be suspicious, because at his name the woman’s face lights up in surprise, taking her hand off the mouse to bend under the counter. 

“Oh!” the woman says, surprised. “Wait just one second, I’ve got something for you actually.” She bends to rummage underneath the counter, while Richie stands flabbergasted. Hearing this, Sandy hurries behind him to excitedly watch over his shoulder.

When the woman hands Richie a certificate, allowing him to catch a glimpse of what it says, his heart stutters out a shocking arrhythmia, an all-encompassing blush blooming warm and pink across his face. 

Okay. So it - may be time to reconsider truths he had previously considered to be immutable. And that’s not an easy thing to contend with for Richie, who (despite what people may think) has spent the last forty years double, triple, and quadruple checking everything that he says or does lest he inadvertently reveal something about himself that he isn’t ready for the world to know. During the twenty-two years that he spent amnesiac, he always knew he hadn’t dated because it was just too risky, too exposing, and besides that nobody had ever come close to being more important to him than his precious and deeply-valued privacy was. But during his first eighteen years of his life, and the last week, he knew and had swiftly relearned that it was really because he had accepted long ago that the only person he would ever want to be with wouldn’t want the same.

Because Eddie was straight. And if he wasn’t straight, it wouldn’t have made a difference anyway because Eddie Kaspbrak would never want to be with somebody like _Richie_ \- which is just as well because Richie had always known that Eddie only deserves the best. And Richie knows that the best isn’t him. It doesn’t matter that he had always loved him, that he had stood silently his whole life watching Eddie suffer with his overbearing mother, the kids at school who would shove him around, the adults who would enable his hypochondriac fears and think _I wouldn’t do that to you. I would love you right, I promise that I know how to love you, it’s the only thing I do know how to do._ That didn’t change the fact that Richie was just a star in the sky while Eddie was an entire galaxy. 

But. _But._ Everything that has been happening, every message from Eddie only seems to point one way, and Richie can’t tell if he’s reading things right after all these years, or if his desperate hope is colouring the situation in his mind so much that he can no longer be trusted to tell what’s real and what isn’t. 

The problem is that there is just no way to know for _sure_. And so he refuses to think too deeply about what he sees flashing on his lockscreen that night.

**Stan the Man |** **_2h Ago_ ** **:** Oh, very fucking funny, mor...

 **Eds💕 |** **_3hm Ago_ ** **:** 🐧 ❤️

 **Eds💕 |** **_4h Ago_ ** **:** Loud and clea...

 **Stan the Man |** **_7h Ago_ ** **:** I hope you two know what y...

 **Eds💕|** **_8h Ago:_ ** Getting the idea yet?

**Steve Covall (90) Missed Calls**

  
  


-⛽️-

  
  


The two of them briefly consider vacating Rockland and gunning straight for Bar Harbor the next day, considering that they’ve already experienced the best that the town has to offer, but this is only until Sandy discovers the existence of one of Maine’s best B&Bs. 

And so Thursday sees them having dinner at the Rockland Inn, the best part of which is the complimentary pies that local grandmas bake for guest’s sampling. Emotionally, Richie has been put through a lot and he’s ready to wallow in his feelings and devour a blackberry pie, damn it. 

This is supposed to be a simple goal with a simple means of accomplishing it. He doesn’t know why he’s still surprised when he walks with Sandy into the dining room only to hear -

“Now, this isn’t Richie is it?” A kind-looking old lady, curly white hair pulled up into a bun at the top of her head dodders in, red and white polka-dotted apron tied around her waist and still-hot plate of pie held in her mitted hands. A nametag reading _May_ with colourful little stars crayoned around it rests on her chest.

“That would be me,” Richie confirms, bracing for whatever the next assault on his heart will be. He’s ready. He’s got this. It can’t be more harrowing than a puffin named Sweetheart. Or at least, this is what he thinks until her next words hit him.

“Well happy anniversary sweetheart!” Grandma May says, placing the pie carefully down onto a round placemat on the table. The pie she presents is round and latticed, over twenty little cut out pastry hearts covering the top, and the thick, sweet smell of blackberries emanating from the bake. 

“Anniversary?” Richie asks flabbergasted, looking over at Sandy for help, who just shrugs, raising an eyebrow in equal confusion. “We’re not - uh. Sandy and I are just good friends?”

May laughs, a musical tinkling sound, and waves a hand at him. “Yes, yes I know that dear. Your husband called in earlier to let us know that you’ve been stuck on a work trip during your anniversary, and asked if we could prepare a nice homemade pie for you, and I thought it was just about the sweetest thing I ever did hear. And I hear that blackberry is your favourite?” 

“My _what_ ,” Richie wheezes, Sandy reaching over to thump at his back while May coos, clearly charmed by how overcome Richie is at this romantic gesture from his husband. His _husband_ . The word hits somewhere deep down in Richie’s chest, a small secret place that has him blushing all over again. It’s - that word husband, especially connected with _Eddie Kaspbrak_ is almost too much for him to handle. He never thought, not in his wildest, wildest dreams that one day he, Richie Tozier, could have a _husband_. He knew that he would never have a wife, obviously, but all that told him was that he would be alone forever, seeing his friends when he was lucky enough to, but never part of a pair, a matched set. 

He remembers back when they were kids, the six of them sitting around against some trees while Eddie stood out there in the baseball field that lay behind the Tracker Brothers’ trucking workshop. Phil Tracker stood out there with him then, adjusting his stance and demonstrating how he should be angled as Eddie practiced pitching baseballs and improving his batting skills, over and over, his latest obsession to prove to his mother that he wasn’t the delicate flower she thought. When the Trackers left town it would be track, which had remained his mainstay as long as Richie could remember, the speedy bastard.

Tony Tracker came out of the shop after awhile, offering the six of them glasses of lemonade and walking away to call out tips to Phil and Eddie as he watched them practice.

“Those two sure don’t look a lot alike for brothers, do they?” Bill had asked, ball cap pulled backwards around his head to see better. And he wasn’t wrong - Phil was tall and lean, light-haired and lithe. Tony was shorter and had jet black curls pulled up under his hat, the two of them as far apart as it was possible to be, looks-wise.

"I don't think they’re brothers," Stan had said evenly, causing Bill to look over at him in surprise. "I think they're husbands."

" _Husbands_?" Ben had said, while Bill gaped silently. "But - two men can't be married."

Stan had simply shrugged, leaving it at that but leaning his body weight against a silent Richie. "Doesn't matter. I think they are."

Nobody had said anything after that, but Richie's stomach was riddled with somersaults, brain so scrambled he barely knew which way was up. A man. Who had a husband. Two husbands. His husband. Richie's eyes had drifted over to Eddie at that last thought, baseball jersey covered in sweat and dirt, but a blinding grin on his face, but quickly turned back away, flushing horribly. Tony had watched Phil teach Eddie with a tender look in his eye.

Eddie Kaspbrak. His husband. 

He wants to leave the room suddenly, to not be perceived while he adjusts to this. This - it can’t be a joke. Eddie wouldn’t do that to him, it would be going too far. And that can only mean that it must be genuine. That this is what Eddie has been trying to tell him this whole time. 

Richie is quiet as he eats his pie. Sandy and May chatter along beside him, but he can’t speak. He’s a puffin at sea.

> **Richie Tozier ✔️@Trashmouth**
> 
> Sandy and I have been adopted by Granny May of Rockland; everybody say sorry Went and Maggie. pic.twitter.com/anhf86fh

**Eds💕 |** **_1h Ago_ ** **:** 💍

-⛽️-

**BAR HARBOR [Friday]**

Richie is rudely awoken the next morning by the weight of an entire human being landing on him. He wheezes out a breath, contorting himself so that there’s no longer a knee in his kidney, and Sandy flips off of him to throw herself dramatically down beside him in the bed. Shoving his glasses on to his face, Richie looks over to see the clock flashing 8:00am. He groans, grabbing a pillow to shove over his face, but Sandy immediately pulls it off. 

“Last day!” Sandy sings. “Up and at ‘em, Tiger, the day is young and we’ve got things to do.”

“Oh my _god_ , I hate you _,_ what could we possibly have to do at _8:00am_ ,’ Richie whines, and Sandy rolls off the bed to grab his arm in an attempt to tug him up. It doesn’t do much with his general broadness, but laying here until a dislocation occurs isn’t such an attractive idea either, so Richie kicks at her with his feet and rolls off the bed himself. Sandy is already rummaging around his bags by the time he’s upright, throwing rejected articles of clothing out willy-nilly as she searches. 

“Privacy, privacy,” Richie intones dramatically, “wherefore art thou privacy?”

“Never heard of her,” Sandy says back over her shoulder. “Why do you have no hiking clothes?”

“What.” Richie says flatly. And then -

“Sandra, I am _not_ hiking at 8:00am. In fact, I don’t plan on hiking at any hour, so glad we had this talk but I’m going to go back to sleep now -”

“Wait, do you think my name is Sandra?” Sandy asks, “It’s not. And yes we _are_ hiking you gigantic toddler, so strap up and meet me downstairs in ten.”

“Ugghhhhhhhhhh,” Richie groans loudly, but Sandy tosses a sneaker at his head and slams the door before revenge can be sought. 

-⛽️-

  
  


Sandy takes the wheel this time, down the highway and past long lines of depe green pines lining the shore, just blocking his view of the Atlantic. The early morning awakening and the beating heat of the sun through the passenger side window has Richie nodding off against the glass, Sandy turning down the music quietly to let him have his rest. Richie dreams that he is a sailor, following a weathered old treasure map to the red X at the end. The journey is long and arduous, but the clues along the way warm his chest gentle and true. He is just about to turn the corner, past the final trees that block the burying place, a voice ahead of him calling out “Hey, honey -” when he is shaken awake by Sandy. She has a water bottle held teasingly over his head as if prepared to douse him in it, and Richie scrambles out of the seat before she can make good on it, dreamscape dissipating like breath on the wind.

Standing in front of the trail directory, Richie is personally pulling for the Ocean Path, an ‘easy family stroll; the most popular and scenic’, but Sandy is absolutely insistent on a much longer, much more difficult to navigate trail that will take them the better part of five hours to conquer. 

“Fucking _why_ ,” Richie moans, “Did I do something to you last night? Do you _hate_ me?” 

Sandy snorts, pulling him by his arm to the trail’s opening. “Nah. Just heard there was something cool that it passes toward the end.”

“Suspicious.” Richie mutters, loping after her with a deep, chest-felt sigh.

Hiking is hell. Nature is hell. Acadia National Park, specifically, is hell. Richie tries to communicate this to Sandy through laboured breaths as they make their way back to the car five hours of hiking later. 

“ _War is hell_ ,” Richie quotes dramatically to her, huffing and puffing. “When they said that they meant it about Acadia National Park, you know.”

“Poor thing,” Sandy pouts, tiny violin making an appearance on her fingers before flashing her head to the side of the trail to point to her left. “Oh! Look at that.”

Turning around to follow her finger, Richie sees a small little pedestrian bridge, adorned top to bottom with brass and steel locks. Moving closer to investigate, it becomes clear immediately that they’re branded with paired initials and names of couples; it’s one of those love lock bridges. Richie runs a careful finger over the nearest one, wishing he had brought one along with him. It’s stupid - he didn’t even know that this was here, and he’s pretty sure you’re only supposed to place a lock with the names of two people who are already together down, but still. Him and bridges go a long way back. It would have been fitting, in it's own way. 

“That’s a pretty one,” Sandy says, pulling him from his reverie and pointing out a shiny forest-green lock with a silver heart painted around the centre, hanging proudly in the very middle of the structure. Richie hums in agreement, walking over to lift it up by the base to get a closer look. When he looks down, his breath catches in his throat.

_R + E._

That’s what it says. What is written in bold sharpie strokes, right in the centre of the silver heart. Richie doesn’t believe what he sees, this matching brass token to the deep, sure etching that still exists hours away in a different Atlantic town. Richie looks at Sandy, who for the first time since any of this began, doesn’t meet his eyes at a new and far too coincidental discovery. Richie continues to stare at her. Sandy starts to whistle, looking up at the treeline above them.

“Who you been talking to lately, Sands?” Richie asks. “Anyone interesting? Anyone I might know?”

Sandy grins at him. “Come on, loser. We’ve got dinner plans.”

Well if that isn’t confirmation. 

-⛽️-

Dinner plans, whatever they may be, necessitate that Richie put on a monkey suit. He learns this when Sandy pulls over at the side of the road where a small travellers centre sits, pushing him forward and pulling a long garment bag out of the trunk of the car, ordering him to put it on. 

“But _why,”_ Richie complains. “Can’t we just stop at a seafood shack or something -”

“No we can’t stop at a _seafood shack,_ Richard, Jesus. You’re a celebrity dude, trying having some goddamn standards for once.”

“You’re a celebrity too!” Richie shoots back. “And you brought us back McDonald’s for lunch yesterday, so.”

“I don’t remember that,” Sandy says, face blank. “Now come on, suit on.”

The suit is far more fancy than anything Richie has ever worn in his life before. The fabric is a deep, soft maroon, the shirt underneath it a soft-knit black, a tie nowhere to be seen. He has to admit, Sandy did a better job with this than she did with the speedo, and Richie _feels..._ almost handsome for the first time maybe ever in his life. For a brief moment he’s disappointed that Eddie will never see him in it, especially with how forward the man has been of late. But that’s his own fault for fleeing Bangor. For leaving Eddie while he was not yet unhooked from IV poles, not yet cleared for discharge. He shakes himself from these thoughts, exiting the bathroom to hold his arms out for Sandy’s assessment.

“Richie,” Sandy says, voice soft. “You look so handsome. Look at you.”

Richie ducks his head, feeling self-conscious suddenly at this authentic display of emotion. Sandy notes this, rolling her eyes before wrapping him up in a hug and flicking his forehead on her way down without another word. 

It’s an hour later that Richie and Sandy pull up to a cozy looking Tudor-style restaurant, draped prettily in fairy lights and with soft music audible from the patio even before they exit the car. It’s all so picturesque that Richie can feel his heartbeat slowing, his shoulders relaxing. Until he sees the sign at the driveway leading up to the front door, at which point his brows furrow together confusedly.

_McGill’s House Couples Night!_

“Oh, I’m into this,” Richie says, “Is the scheme to pretend to be together so that we get some free crab legs? I did that once in college, it always works like a charm.”

“Yeah, something like that.” Sandy says, leaning across the front seat to answer Richie through the window since she hasn’t unbuckled her seatbelt yet. “But I forgot to change like you did earlier, so grab us a table and I’ll be there in a second.” 

Richie shrugs, sticking his hands in his pocket and making his way into the restaurant. The inside is pretty - not as formal as he had expected, which is nice. It’s almost something of a bar atmosphere, comfortable and quality without being dingy. A passing waiter grabs him a table for two, placing a numbered sign down to signal that it’s taken, and Richie sits there for a minute, tapping his fingers on the dark wood and waiting for Sandy to come in. He gets bored after a few more minutes of this, standing up and walking over to check out the outdoor patio which has been turned into a small dance floor for the attending couples tonight. A few are already taking advantage of it, twirling together blissfully, eyes not leaving each other’s and Richie slumps back against the wall, watching dejectedly. 

He’s startled out of his watch when a tall blond man, muscled and cocky-looking walks up to tap him on the shoulder. His suit and general demeanour screams wealth and entitlement, and Richie is not about it. 

“No one here to dance with you, darling?” he says, arrogance oozing out of every pore. Richie is already repelled by him, on top of how flustered he feels to be chatted up by a man in public for the first time in his life after publicly coming out. The man reaches out to grab at his waist. “Let me take you out on the floor.”

“Uh - no,” Richie says hastily, taking a step back. “No, that’s okay thanks - I’m happy just watching, really.”

The man laughs, clearly not taking the hint, and steps forward back into his space. “What, you have a wife or something? I won’t tell.” 

“No,” Richie says, shaking his head. “I just - don’t really want to - ”

“Oh come on,” the man says, stepping forward again. “Don’t tease me. Let me get you out there come on - ” 

Richie stumbles backwards again, but this time his back bumps against a warm body, a strong chest pressing against his back, and an arm coming up to wind around his waist. Richie is stuck, can’t look behind him to apologize to whoever he’s bashed into, but the words die in his throat when he hears the voice speak.

“Thanks for keeping my husband company,” it says, “Got held up in traffic.”

Richie’s heart stutters and then begins to race like he’s just downed twelve cups of extra-caffeinated coffee. The other arm which has since come up to hold over the front of his chest feels this, stroking soothingly along the pectoral line. Richie struggles a bit instead of melting into it like he wants, trying desperately to turn around, to see him - but he doesn’t have to struggle for long, because the arms around him twirl him around themselves, reaching out quick and sure to steady him as he stumbles to right himself.

“Hey, honey,” Eddie says, an arm coming up to gently wind around his waist, the other settling soft and warm at his shoulder. The half-remembered intonation of a dream ringing in Richie’s ears. “Sorry I’m late. Had some stuff to finish up.”

“Eddie,” Richie breathes, shock turning his body weak, hands falling to his neck more out of the inability to hold them up than out of any intention. “What are you - how did -”

Eddie simply hums, already walking them backwards away from the man, into a rhythm matching the soft background music. Richie falls silent, overcome by the fond smile on Eddie’s gentle face, the reflection of the fairy lights in his big brown eyes. His mouth falls open just slightly, and Eddie takes pity on him.

“Thought it was time to bring you in from the cold,” he says, pulling Richie into another spin, the sights and sounds around them turning into an irrelevant blur. “Don’t you think? Can’t track you around with a map forever.” 

Of course. Eddie the Navigator. It’s always been what they could count on him for, that wherever they were, however lost they became, Eddie Kaspbrak would find them and lead them back home. Tears well up in Richie’s eyes, and they fall shut when Eddie lets out a distressed sound, reaching up to wipe at them before they can fall. Then he remembers - 

“Where did Sandy go?” he says, looking around them. “She said she’d be in.”

Eddie looks a bit abashed at this now, pink rising up to dust his cheeks. “I hope you don’t mind. I got ahold of her last night and asked for some help with just this last bit. She’s back at the hotel - I think she’s expecting a call from her girlfriend, or - ex, or whatever. It’s a friend of Bev’s, apparently, so it all came together kind of perfectly, no need to worry that she’s been left in the dust here.”

Richie shakes his head, still not quite able to believe what he’s hearing. Eddie waits him out patiently, continuing to lead them in a gentle waltz, until Richie feels calm enough to take a deep shuddering breath in and speak again.

“So, husband?” he asks, trying hard to sound casual. “That’s the second time I've heard that from you now. A boy might start to get some ideas.”

“Second time?” Eddie asks, amused, seeing right through him. They twirl together fluidly again, no toes stepped on, no stumbling steps. 

“Yeah,” Richie says. “Grandma May told me that the two of us were married back in Rockland.” 

“Oh, right,” Eddie says, “I forgot I told her that. Bit of a spoiler I guess, but oh well.”

Richie freezes for a second before Eddie is tugging him back into the flow. “Spoiler?” he asks weakly. “What do you mean, spoiler?”

Eddie looks at him right in the eye, amusement falling off his face so that a soft look of sincerity is the strongest feeling in his eyes. “Well I hope you didn’t think I was just messing with you when I told everybody we were married. I’m not planning on letting you go again, now I’ve found you.” 

Eddie doesn’t kneel. He doesn’t make a grand production, or halt the dance, or raise his voice. He simply reaches down into the pocket of his suit jacket, and pulls out a simple gold band, a modest diamond set in the top.

“I hope you like it,” he says, “My options were kind of low and I _was_ breaking out of the hospital to get to you. But I figured simple was good anyway; wouldn’t want it to upstage your godawful shirts.”

Richie stares at him. He’s barely heard anything Eddie said after ‘messing with you’; he doesn’t think he’s really awake. This is all so unexpected, so much of what he’s always wanted his whole life that he’s hesitant to let it be, even though he’d begun to suspect Eddie’s requited feelings sometime after the puffin exhibit.

“But aren’t you - aren’t you already married?” he asks weakly, hands gripping Eddie tightly now, cursing himself in his head for not being able to just let something be good. But Eddie doesn’t look upset at this, simply shakes his head and spins them again.

“I asked for a divorce on the plane to Derry,” he says evenly. “And I’m a risk analyst, you know - I had a pretty solid prenup in place. It had everything all laid out already, not much needed to be done except for her to sign, and your video pretty well took care of that.” 

Richie takes this in, needing a minute or two to orient himself in light of this new world he’s found himself dropped into. He decides to go for a joke, not feeling steady enough to flay himself open right here on this dance floor.

“What will our prenup say?” he jokes, “Or will I learn about that after it's already done, too?” 

“We won’t have one,” Eddie says, the _duh_ evident in his voice. “Obviously. I’m yours forever.”

Now Richie is truly broken open, his heart pulled beating out of his chest to rest safe and protected in Eddie’s sure hands. The tears wet his face, and he leans down to burrow it into Eddie’s neck, nose pressing up against where his pulse beats reassuringly. Eddie hands come up, holding Richie’s hair, the other cupping his exposed cheek to turn his face sideways and up; the music turns and he pushes him down into a dip. 

“I love you, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs, so close that their lips brush against each other, Eddie’s breath hot against his mouth. He presses their lips together, again and again; it's like he can’t stop. “I love you. Of course. I love you.”

Richie pulls back with a gasp as Eddie tugs them both upright, foreheads coming down to rest against each other. Then - 

“Does this mean that we have joint custody of Sweetheart the puffin?” Richie asks wetly, fingers curled tight around Eddie’s hipbones. 

Eddie laughs, fingers coming up to twine into his curls. “Is that a yes, then?” 

_I can’t conceal it, don’t you see?_ the music overhead plays, _Can’t you feel it? Don’t you, too?_

“I do,” Richie says, leaning forward to press their lips together once again. “I do, I do, I do, I do.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> :o)


End file.
